Different Melodies
by Morrigan the Nightmare Queen
Summary: Too many people see Erik as a soap opera type. But when Christine is gone, the Opera Ghost makes an unlikely acquaintance with a charwoman . . . and things may not be so bleak after all. Character development. Contains OC. Not a romance.


Author's note: This is my first foray into Phantom of the Opera fanfiction; sadly, I haven't been able to get ahold of the original Leroux novel yet, and have only read abbreviated translations. Not Forsyth- I know from PotO fans online to avoid that edition like the plague. As a result, I may not have the characterizations quite right, and I hope that any alert reviewers out there will let me know if and when I stumble.

This story is a concerted attempt to write a fairly light (or at any rate, not insanely angsty) PotO character-development and OC story. Why choose that? Process of elimination. I'm a big Phantom fan, for starters, but I really don't have the skill as a writer to probe into the characters of Raoul or Christine. My inner romance novelist likes the concept of E/C, but I can't see the pairing really working out practically- plus, I wouldn't dare throw over Raoul- so this story will focus on Erik. It will be a friendship story, but I will do my best to keep Erik in character.

This is not a romance. I see a lot of E/C, and especially E/OC, but I like the character of Erik as a singular person and would like to take an opportunity to work with him alone, instead of as part of the Erik-Christine-Raoul triangle. And I wouldn't be caught dead writing about a beautiful woman who'll heal Erik's psychological wounds and, of course, have a better voice than Christine ever did. I don't do Twoo Wuv.

Disclaimer: Christine, Raoul, Erik, and associated characters and concepts do not belong to me. I'm merely borrowing them for the purposes of unpaid entertainment; please do not sue me. Bessie Connelly does belong to me, and I hope I haven't got any reason to be ashamed of her.

**Different Melodies**

Chapter One: Midnight Visitor

One often heard music when one worked in the Opera House. Bessie Connelly, charwoman to the toast of Paris, would have needed all her fingers, toes, and teeth to count the different songs she heard in a single day. Carrying the trays of tea and coffee down the aisles between the curtained boxes, shuffling a little in the buckled shoes that were just a bit too big, Bessie would keep half an ear cocked to the performance and match the music to the performer she had heard rehearsing for hours beforehand. The lead tenor never paid his tea-bills, neither, and half the ballet chorus wouldn't drink nothing for fear it would make them weighty.

Bessie was twenty-nine, but she looked older. Her dark hair was prematurely grayed at the temples, and round red cheeks had begun to sink and pale a little in these past few years. She was an Englishwoman, and properly shouldn't have been here in Paris at all- but there had been that unpleasantness over the doctor, and having been called as a witness to Mr. Norridge's presence in the cellar that day, Bessie couldn't very well show her face in Whitechapel again. Half the folks at the pub had known that man was guilty, and when Bessie had been up on the stand for the defense, well! That was that. She'd never expected to wind up in Paris, of all places . . . it had certainly been a long road, and a hard one, but she knew she oughtn't to complain. "Life never gives us what we can't handle," her mother had always said, God rest her soul. And it had been the French her mother had taught her (grandfather'd had money once, she'd said- sent Mother to finishing school in hopes of a rich son-in-law, and what does he get? An Irish cooper!) that had let her find work in Paris, and rent a small flat over a tavern where the students gathered.

But now, hours after the performance, all music had ceased. The 'core de ballay' had taken off their toe-shoes and gone home to hot blankets and well-earned rest, and the audience to parties or . . . or whatever the booshwah did. Bessie had vague ideas of golden candlesticks and forests of crystal wineglasses, usually quick glimpses caught through a distant window. Something posh nobs liked, no doubt.

During the day, she was a charwoman, handling the tea-cart (these French folks drank all sorts of things, but to her, it would always be a good English tea-cart), and sometimes she would do other jobs as well. She always swept out the boxes after performances: and it was amazing what some folks would leave behind, too. A compact, a pocket-watch, a glove far too small for Bessie's broad hand- all sorts of things. She always gave them to the impresario. A few things tempted her mightily, but she'd seen more than one woman gone to the jailhouse for being accused of stealing what was but left behind in innocence.

As she swept, she thought. In an opera house, you can't help but find yourself immersed in music; some of the songs were beautiful, though she'd a Cockney's chance in Brighton of knowing what they meant. All about love and death, no doubt. Foreign songs always were. Lovely tunes, though, and she would hum a little while she worked.

That Mam'selle Christine, she had a lovely voice. Simply marvelous; listening to her in full throat made you feel as though you'd lift off the ground and float away into the sky. She'd sung a part not long ago, the night the chandelier came down- what a disaster that was! All the dancers were flibberting about a ghost, and not a single tea-bill had been paid that day. Not one! Anyway, it had been so lovely and so sad, as though her heart'd broken.

Not that it was, though, for they'd all soon heard that she was to marry some high-born bloke. A viscount? Something like that. Mam'selle Christine had looked so happy, climbing into that carriage with the handsome fellow . . . for a moment, Bessie had wondered what her own life would have been like, if _she_- but there! None of that now. Not when there's work to do.

That opera ghost story, though; that was one that kept on coming back to you. He was lucky, some said. He was unlucky, others insisted. He favors singers! No, he kills them. He's killed before. Says who? Says the brother of a fellow I once knew. And how does he know? A man he met saw it done. Nobody could ever give you a straight tale about the ghost, but one thing everybody agreed on: they were scared stiff of him, and that was for sure. The chandelier, they'd said that was his doing. Bessie didn't know; she'd been backstage, putting away the clean cups, when that horrible crash had come. Something about a chase? A masked man? Stories got all garbled up.

For certain, though, the opera house was downright gloomy after dark. Bessie often swept the stage, cleaning up the piles of sawdust left by the stagehands and occasionally removing the discarded shoe of an overenthusiastic dancer. Shadows didn't just sit in the opera house; they lurked, scuttled, and did all those other lively things that shadows oughtn't to. There were too many mirrors about, anyway.

Bessie hated to enter a dressing room late in the evening. The discarded costumes gave it the feeling of a tomb, and the vases of flowers (always wilting- nobody ever thinks to fetch water for them) only added to the impression. The mirrors stood, big and empty and dark, reflecting only Bessie's drawn face in the pale lamplight. So full of music and noise by day and evening, the opera house stood unnaturally quiet in the small hours of the night.

A few times, she had thought she heard singing. She'd tapped her ears and gone to investigate, but there was never anybody onstage or in the dressing rooms, and she'd dismissed it as the imagination. That Mam'selle Christine had once spoken- whispered, really- that an Angel of Music lived in the opera house, but Bessie thought that it was just an expression. The singer herself sounded like an angel often enough, after all. But late at night, faced with the shadows and the ominous silence of the place, it was hard to keep one's head cool.

Bessie herself didn't hesitate in adding to the music that filled the opera house. But the kind of songs she and the other charwomen sang weren't likely to win applause anywhere away from the cheap district pubs; some ditties, even in French, aren't suitable for the general public. She hesitated to sing in the darkness of the opera house after hours, but she was a fair tenor in the afternoon kitchen, and had managed to translate a few of her father's old tunes into bad French for the other ladies. When the charwomen talked, it was mostly of men (their faults), young folks (their excesses), rich people (their silliness), and the opera (its rumors and gossip), and tunes like "Courting in the Kitchen" and "Boys of Bedlam" fit well. It was a mercy their washing-up was done far from the rehearsal rooms, or there would have been dischargings for sure.

But now, in the darkness of the deserted boxes, Bessie shifted uncomfortably and clutched her mop a little tighter. Since the night of the chandelier, she'd heard no more voices after hours, and the shadows seemed made only deeper by the light of her lamp. This box was kept locked most days, and Bessie hadn't a notion why they wanted it swept out at all, but the silence brought to mind all sorts of stories. One of the charwomen, a rawboned grandmother of five named Jeanne-Marie, relished the telling of gruesome tales; as a longtime worker, her favorite subject was always the opera ghost. It was only this afternoon that Jeanne-Marie had enthralled the women with the story of a man, murdered for forsaken love, who was doomed to roam the opera house forever- living only by killing to steal others' life. According to her, any singer who hit the wrong note on an opening night or offended the dignity of the opera would be taken by the ghost, and Mam'selle Carlotta was bound to be next. An accident? Don't you believe it! _Mon dieu, _'essie! Don't look such a fright!

The broom bumped against the back of the seat, and Bessie shook her head sharply, reminding herself to be keep working. The flame of the lamp flickered slightly, sending the shadows dancing across the closed velvet curtains, making weird patterns on the wall. The stillness seemed too intense; Bessie felt as if she would burst if there were no sound, even a floorboard creak. Nothing is more silent than a place that was once a house of music.

To keep herself steady, she began to hum again; not a song from the opera (though she did love that bit from the masked ball scene; lovely, that), but a ditty with a good tune and a simple lyric. She somehow felt that to sing a song for drinking, after hours in a place like this, would be somehow disrespectful; but this was a love song, the only one she knew, and it seemed not out of place.

"The Maid of the Sweet Brown Knowe," it was called, and it was one of the songs her father would sing in a melancholy mood. The lover in the song discards a woman because she hasn't money, and she knew her pa had been thinking of his father-in-law's high ambitions for Mother. All these operas were about people loving and dying, anyway, so she hoped it wouldn't- offend, Jeanne-Marie's word and a good one- offend the great building if she sang a bit to lighten her nerves. Her voice wouldn't win any medals, but she could carry a tune, and she wouldn't raise it very loud, neither. Just enough to make her feel a bit better.

"He said unto the maid, then, 'How can you answer so?'" She sang quietly. It had been a long day, and her voice was hoarse. "'Look down on yonder valley, where my verdant crops do grow! Look down on yonder valley, where my horses, man and plow, are at their daily labor for the maid of the sweet brown knowe.'"

The next verse was meant to be sung with a wink and a grin, for it showed the clever young maid exposing the lover for the ruffian he was. But Bessie, who did her best to hide that wretched sentimental streak, sang it with a hint of sadness; she'd a notion, somewhere deep inside her, that perhaps the maid didn't want to know what the man really was. The maid was poor, and she hadn't the chance of a better offer. Mightn't she have wished to close her eyes to his faults?

Ah, Bessie, you're looking like an old mother and now you're thinking like one, too.

"'If they're at their daily labor, kind sir, 'tis not for me,'" she continued, trying to pitch her voice up for the character of the maid. It squawked, but after a few words, she managed to touch a good note. "'For I've heard of your behavior, I have indeed,' said she. 'There is an inn where you call in- I've heard the people say that you rap and you call and you pay for all, and go home at the break of day.'"

_"No."_

Bessie jumped. The handle of the broom clashed violently against the back of the nearest seat, and the dull sound echoed all around the empty corridor. She stood stock-still, clutching the broom and looking around, staring wide-eyed at the shadows. "Ah- bienvenue?" she managed shakily. "Is anybody here? Um . . . _es-"_

"Peace," the voice said. It seemed to echo from within the walls. Bessie grasped the broom more firmly, seeking comfort and reassurance in the solid weight. "I speak Anglais." The voice was a rich baritone, with an almost . . . musical accent to it. "I know that your Francais is dubious."

"I-" Bessie faltered. How often was one addressed by such a cultured-sounding gentleman? He must be a patron, perhaps a man who had fallen asleep and been locked in- "Sir? I beg your pardon, sir," she babbled nervously, looking about, "But I was sweeping up, and I hope I didn't disturb you but the opera house is closed now-"

The voice spoke again, sounding quietly bemused. "I know that the opera house is closed, mademoiselle. I go where I please in it, no matter the time of day."

Bessie's breathing was shallow, and her fingers were white where they gripped the broom. She saw no one; the room was completely empty. She didn't know whether she would rather she saw no one- or something, no matter how horrid it was, for the stories told in the soapy afternoon kitchen were crowding into her mind. "Are- are you the ghost, sir?" she managed to squeak out.

There was a deep chuckle. "Some call me a ghost. I prefer to think of myself as an artist."

Somehow, this didn't reassure Bessie in the slightest. "So you are dead- like they say, sir?" She whispered.

"In a way . . . yes, you might call me dead. I've been called many things."

"M-many things?"

"Angel. Monster." The voice was dry and even. "Choose what you like."

The charwoman glanced around. The inflection sounded vaguely familiar, like a distant relative long forgotten, perhaps- or maybe-

"Was it you I heard singing, sir?" She could hear a breath indrawn, and nothing more. "Only when I looked about a fortnight back, I could never find a man who sings as I've heard it here."

"Yes."

The grip on the broom relaxed very slightly. "Are y'going to kill me, sir?"

"If you'd kept on butchering the pentatonic scale that way, I might have." Bessie shuddered, and the voice laughed again. But though it was a laugh, there was no humor to it. It was the darkest, most solemn voice Bessie had ever heard, and in some odd way, this comforted her more than the humorless joke. It sounded just like poor Mr. Norridge, before they led him away; he'd sworn up and down that he'd never kill the doctor's poor wife (and butchered like a hog she was, God rest her soul) but they came for him just the same. It was a voice that had lost something.

"I didn't mean any harm, sir," was all Bessie could think of to say. Her explanation was hurried and nervous, but the mystery guest made no attempt to stop her. "I was just a bit frightened of the dark and the quiet, so I thought I'd cheer myself a bit- I haven't the voice nor the class for the songs they sing here, sir, but a little song such as my father used to sing, sir, it's a lovely tune and I didn't want to sing nowt that would . . . you know . . . not be right," she ended lamely.

There was a little rustle of fabric, as though a cloak had been drawn away from something, and the voice spoke again. "You have a good voice," it said emotionlessly. "Not an operatic voice, but you may learn in time to use it decently. You might practice."

"Might I know what . . . why you're here, sir?" Bessie ventured.

There was no reply. The flame of the lamp flickered again, and Bessie hastily turned to follow the dancing shadows. Was there a movement there? A solid shape? She couldn't see clearly in the low light. She dropped the broom and raced to the door of the box, half-hoping and half-fearing to see something . . . but there was nothing, just the brown shadows of the dimly lit corridor.

She drew a shaky breath, and pressed a hand to her heart in an effort to calm herself. Once again, the opera house was as silent as the grave, with not a footstep nor a scurrying rat to disturb its stillness. Bessie turned to look back at the open door of the box, where her broom was lying discarded on the floor. There were footprints on the fresh tracks of dust it had left; but they were only her own.

_To be continued . . . _


End file.
